Christmas in the Key of Eek!

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My Christmas season began normally enough on the 17th. That was the day I noticed my trusty refrigerator was making a half-hearted effort of keeping my food cold. I threw out the moldy foods and called the repairman at first light Friday morning.

“They don’t make ‘m like that anymore,” he told me upon entering my kitchen. Then, he opened the freezer door and peered inside. In an instant, he closed the door and gave me the news. “This box is shot. Your best bet is to rush to Lowe’s and buy the Whirlpool they have on sale. It is as good as they make these days. Yours is beyond repair.”

I handed him some cash and he disappeared. His advice ran $10 per minute. “Forget being a doctor,” I thought to myself. Later that day, I made the journey to Lowe’s and went straight to the appliance department. I found the recommended fridge, bought it and arranged for delivery and installation the following afternoon. My last official act was to remove the surviving perishables from the old box and place them in ice chests. It would be hard to say goodbye to the appliance that kept my milk, beer, eggs, bacon and cheese cold over two decades. “All appliances are mortal,” I reminded myself. Ho, Ho, Ho.

Saturday morning arrived, cold and clear. In recent months, I have allowed my inner bum free reign on weekends. It was after eight when I slid from beneath the covers and schlepped downstairs for coffee. After the caffeine kicked in, I strolled into my office to check emails and organize my plan of action for the day. Receiving the new fridge was the only item of consequence on the list. That was destined to change.

I was at the height of reverie when my phone rang. “Hullo?”

“Good morning,” said the soft voice on the other end. “I just wanted to let you know Ben’s diverticulitis is acting up again and we’re at the hospital.” It was my daughter-in-law’s voice. Ben is my only son, of whom I am most proud. My blood pressure rose. “They did a CAT scan and it looks like his colon is perforated. We are waiting for the surgeon to review the scans. He’ll decide if emergency surgery is needed…” She promised to keep me informed and agreed it might be good if I came out there for moral support. Feelings of helplessness tried to drown me, but I went through the motions, anyway. I packed a bag, bought plane tickets, talked to my daughter, who determined to go with and generally wandered in random circles while trying to come to grips with the crisis.

Ben drove his wife and children to Las Cruces, New Mexico only a few days before to visit his wife’s family for the holidays. Since he started in Texas, he was now 700 miles from home and gravely ill. On Friday, the 18th, he played golf. His stomach was not right, so he ate little. As he progressed around the course, he began feeling ill. When he returned to his in-law’s house, he was in pain, pale and sweating profusely. He went to bed without supper.

My flight to El Paso departs at 3:30pm. I had five hours to stare at the clock and the telephone. It seemed cruel that I was pinned in place awaiting a phone call and a refrigerator. “How ridiculous,” I thought, “that anything so unlikely could happen.” The fact that fear and outrage filled my mind made everything around me slightly unreal. “God, don’t make me come up there…” I prayed. What my prayer lacked in humility, it might have made up for in sincerity. I have always relied on Providence to watch over my children when I could not. I consider it a binding contract.

The phone rang around 10:00am. I felt a little chill as I grabbed the phone. “Hello” I said, too sternly. It was the refrigerator. More properly, it was the refrigerator deliveryman. He was ahead of schedule and would arrive at my house by noon. I felt I was on a razor’s edge. I had to wait. There was no word from the surgeon. The early delivery was a good thing. I needed a calculator to count numbers greater than 3.

The delivery went off without a hitch, but the crew had difficulty with the icemaker connection. I called the repairman and asked if he could possibly drop by once more, and soon. He arrived in half an hour and completed the connection. His charges were reasonable. I guess he could tell he was dealing with a near-psychotic lunatic. Once again, he was gone in minutes. I contacted neighbors and asked them to keep an eye on the place and pick up the mail.

The telephone rang again. My daughter-in-law, Tam, told me they would take Ben into surgery as soon as possible. The surgery would require two to four hours. It was time to fly.

The ride to the airport, parking, security and arrival at the gate were surreal. Nothing really impinged upon my consciousness until I felt the plane push back from the gate. After a short taxi, we turned onto the runway and launched toward whatever would happen next. There in the sky, I knew my son was experiencing the awfulness of large scale, emergency surgery on his abdomen and there was nothing more I could do about it. For better or worse, Hope and Faith were all I had left.

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